Wet Dreams

I have been sleeping with the devil, I think.
Those that love me, tell me I'm sick.
I know they are right no matter how hard I try to fight,
to untangle the snarled lines that implicate
the heat of day and deep chasm of night,
He lives there.
At first I wasn't sure it was Him-
being so dark- you know.
After arousing amid a wet,
slimy, stone cold pillow,
my hair plastered to my neck-
strangling me-
two swollen and asphyxiated eyes
on a greenish white face looking at me
in the bathroom mirror,
confirms my satanic suspicions.

The furniture looks the same-set in its ways.
My leaden limbs ache- relentlessly shivering in quakes.
Did the dresser see me
dancing in my delirium-
must have been a dream,
since the coffee table
pleads the fifth, cowering
when asked about the black and blue
marks, bruises on my shins
it lies. No burning desire,
I shiver in icy aloneness,
tossing aside those awake-
turning down and still- not dreaming
while I burned, I feel-
He stares at me lovingly, and I know,
I have been sleeping with the devil.



Image by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), The Nightmare [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Audubons Avian Apology

Upon landing
on a jutting branch of discourse,
detailing drawn conclusions
about the man Audubon,
whose prayers for atonement
have been answered by History.
Poised on perches of frozen time,
not Alive
but trapped in the net of your aim, in-site-
full in vibrant colors, beyond the pale
page, he breathes Life back
as a meticulous Apology.
Focused in on the bird of your prey,
the hunters ring goes unanswered.
Only your breathe from breast
rises and falls,
occupying the empty space
where song climbed the trees
to view against the stoic creamy white
of fantasy, belief must be made,
making believe those shiny black beads
a birds eye view.
Can see you too, it doesn't fly away
choosing to pose and stay anyway-birdbrain;
choosing to fight or take flight-a man-of-kind.

It was proposed in some sacred text,
birds are the messengers of god(s),
while we're down here pushing,
bumping into each other, invading
our shrinking space, while up high
in the sky a letter forms
in the shape of peace.
V is for victory, not peace.
A thousand winged unit of velocity.
We are all going the same place-
says the pastoral preacher from his
High chair.
There-Those are our gifts to share,
in this righteous affair where
carrier pigeons take note-yet
the message was lost in translation.
We are just learning the sign of a circle,
showing us where water and meat reside,
hiding from hunters, take cover
the raptor hovers, screaming for you, Audubon,
to look up at the heavens,
blinded by the light, cocked-eyed
with a loaded gun.

Image of John James Audubon featured in The Popular Science Monthly, September 1887, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Feature Image (top) By James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The sound of light

What do you want from me?

                                                                                               I want to ask-

                                                                                               but don't want to hear

                                                                                               a reply

This is my friend bearing gifts-

                                                                                               she won't stop offering,

I cannot accept-                                                                      is she senile?

Is it the same thing over and over again?

                                                                                                That would be nagging.

No, I don't know where you're from

and cannot tell by your accent                                                If I could guess,

                                                                                                I'd say Light-

I'd be a slight right.

In the dark you're so loud!

                                                                                                There's more room to stretch,

                                                                                                 and stand out.

Will it ever stop?                                                                     Brightly, 

                                                                                                                I hope not.

Image By Love Krittaya (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).

May I ask a Haiku or two?

I

The month of May is

politely asking you to

wear your Summer Blues

II

May wants nothing more

than to sweat out Spring Fever

hallucinating summer

Image by Peder Severin Krøyer, c. 1892 Summer evening [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons 

Botanical blasphemy

Perhaps someone knowledgeable could assist me
as to the origins of some common names in Botany?

Some terms now seem offensive-
so I shall tread rather pensive.

Did miner's really desire a salad to eat
on the golden trail, seeking mini lettuce under feet?

What about the poor mother in law
who gifts sharp tongues out of her barrel cactus maw?

Did anyone talk to the Jew who was wandering-
who was maybe not lost, just walking and pondering?

I'd like to think the Indians could not live without Art,
and chose paintbrushes of flowers, or anything with a pretty part.

Or that the Japanese would build little boxes-
from the stalk of little shrubs, even using bonsai axes.

Perhaps Pliny picked a pepper,
his ghost seed carried a la zephyr.

There are some names I'm sure my family just made up
banana succulent, kangaroo paw, elephants foot, the Scarlet cup

I like those names that are easy to say
as opposed to the other twisted Latin way

which are often coded insults to lower species
all of which happen to thrive in feces

In my observation, the plants I've given a common name
have a special glow not like their anonymous or Latin same

Have you tried this too?
I was just wondering if you knew...



Image of Miners Lettuce By glmory (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The possibilities of a fractal

The way I see it-

art contains real magic.

Like blinking, or like an automaton,-always on.

Projecting its wizardry when no one’s there to see it.

A child is a miracle-

of busy blurred lines.

Making it difficult for others to focus on them directly,

blinded by their angelic buzz of innate electricity.

Art is the grandchild of God-

or whatever grand-father you Believe in.

It’s immaculate conception and delivery are born proof,

of a source, the straw that was pulled, the ignition point.

We are the ghosts of our grandchildren.

Now.

We have to pave the way, clearing our Karmic path

to Here.

Art arrests shape-

holds it captive-

to represent-

likeness-ness.

Our family tree,

rooted in our orchards of History,

bears ripe fruit of juicy inspiration,

tastes like sweet familiar childhood in the shape of a fractal.

Image By Randomness (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Fractal face of Beauty, 2008'.